Interlude: Redux
by Ninon1620
Summary: After her father disappears, Hallie Cross seeks out the man her parents told her to find if she was ever on the run: Jason Bourne.
1. Chapter 1

_EDIT: A.N. -_ So if you enjoyed the previous story (Interlude) and you loved the ending and you didn't care for "Jason Bourne" (the movie), you might not want to go further. This story picks up a few years after the events of *that* movie, but borrows from the "Interlude" universe. So if your head canon is a happy Nicky + Jason, you _might_ not want to read this pseudo-sequel. I was just curious if I could make something work out of the post-"Jason Bourne" world that felt less GAHHHHHHHH than the actual movie.

* * *

 _Two weeks ago_

My father disappeared two weeks ago.

I was at school when it happened. His secretary called me on my mobile to tell me he never showed up for work. They were worried because he was never late and had never missed a day since starting work a year ago. He'd never taken sick days or doctor's appointments.

I told her I'd try to reach him and have him call her back. I called his phone. Instead of my father's voice, I got a general voice mail message. Shaken, I hung up, tried to calm my breath as my heart raced. I leaned against my locker as my classmates hustled past me, on their way to third period.

"Hal, you coming?"

Sharon Davies, one of my fellow juniors, walked towards me, books in hand. We were friendly; but I think Sharon thought more of our friendship than I did.

I don't have friends. I can't.

"Go on ahead. I need to grab some stuff."

She smiled and took off, catching up to other friends as they headed to Trig class. I waited until the hallway thinned out, then slung my backpack over one shoulder. Instead of walking toward the math wing, I beelined for the exit, moving as quickly and as carefully as I could to leave campus without a teacher or administrator noticing.

* * *

 _Then_

My parents love each other.

It is a living, palpable thing, especially now, at the end. All my life, I've watched the tenderness with which they hold each other, the way they still look into each other's eyes. They are still tactile with each other, holding hands, touching, always touching: her hand on his shoulder, around his waist, touching his face; his hand always at the small of her back, around her shoulders, pulling her in close. As her disease progressed and she lost her motor facility, my father would lace his fingers through hers and his hands would keep hers still. Their love is quiet, engaged, and deep.

My mother is so beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and melancholy, green-hazel eyes. Her hair is dark and wavy, in contrast with her flawlessly pale skin. I wish I looked more like her, but I'm a feminine version of my dad: light brown hair, blue eyes, and an angular jawline. I'm _most_ grateful for his nose, which is straight and aquiline.

My mother has Huntington's, a disease which causes the degeneration of nerve cells in the brain. It's a genetic mutation and it is fatal. She will die from this disease while she is still young and beautiful, before she's had a chance for a life long-lived. There's generally a ten-year period from when the symptoms first manifest to when the disease overcomes the person; as their brain deteriorates, everything that made them who they were disappears, impairing physical, cognitive and emotional abilities.

It's rare and affects 30,000 people in the U.S., though some two hundred thousand more are at-risk. Why? Because here's the kicker about Huntington's: it's a familial illness. There's a 50/50 chance of inheriting the mutated gene from an affected parent.

My mom's mother died of Huntington's long before I was ever born, long before my mother reached adulthood. My mother is repeating this pattern, and this is why she spent all her time with me. I've been home-schooled all my life because my parents wanted to travel the world and explore everything they could before my mother's illness took effect.

The last few years have been tough, as her disease has progressed rapidly. We moved to Oregon four months ago, when things finally got bad enough. We're almost out of time.

I wake up because I hear shushing sounds. I'm curled up in the armchair where I fell asleep earlier, while talking to my mom. I've taken up coffee because I want so much to have every moment I can with her, but my teenage body doesn't understand my need to stay awake and despite my best effort every night, I fall asleep much earlier than I want.

It's dark in the room, but my eyes are adjusted and I can make out the shadows beside my mom's bed. My father is carrying her, cradling her against him tenderly. Her body is jerking uncontrollably because of the chorea that accompanies late-stage Huntington's. Dad gently sways back and forth, heedless of her involuntary twitching. She's gasping, her exertions causing her pain and exhaustion, but Dad just holds her tight, making soft comforting sounds.

"So…tired," she whispers to him when her body settles, in between bouts of shaking. I breathe slowly. Mom is having a lucid episode. Her cognition and behavior have recently become so erratic.

"You tell me when, Doc," he says to her gently.

He calls her doc because they met when she worked as a biochemist for a drug company. He was in operations.

"Not yet. I want…I want just a little more…with you and Hallie."

"You just tell me when," he repeats.

Oregon's one of the states that permits terminally ill patients to voluntarily end their lives, subject to some stringent conditions. We're about to cross the point where Mom won't be able to meet the criteria of the Death with Dignity Act, which means our time with her is limited. We're talking weeks, not months.

"Thank you, Aaron." She pauses. "Not for…the end. But for everything before it. For Hallie. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have had her and the best fifteen years of my life."

He chokes, and my eyes well up hearing his pain. "I'm so happy we had her, Doc."

* * *

 _Two weeks ago_

The morning my father disappeared was like any other: we ate together and chatted about our respective schedules. He made my favorite breakfast: crispy thick-sliced bacon and Belgian waffles warmed in the toaster oven.

"I'll be a little late tonight," he'd said, refilling my coffee. I added milk, stirring until the blackness gave way to a light brown. After Mom died, I gave up caffeine, but found that I missed the warmth and bitter taste. It reminded me of those last nights with Mom. "I have a meeting that might run over, so let's grab pizza at Riccardo's tonight."

We moved to southwest Georgia a year ago, and Dad took a job as a mid-level manager for a financial services company.

Then he kissed me on the forehead, said good-bye and left.

That was the last I saw or heard from him.

Within fifteen minutes of hearing the recorded voicemail message on his phone, I was in my Jetta on the road to Atlanta. From the car, I made a call to a number I'd long ago memorized, and provided the agent with details.

Three hours later, I eased my car into a long-term parking facility in Atlanta Hartsfield Airport. I grabbed a small, packed suitcase from the trunk, and a backpack stuffed with items I'd need – passports, identification cards, burner phones, Visa and MasterCard gift cards, and cash – and walked over to the terminal. MARTA, the rapid-transit system, was located right inside, near the shuttle buses, and I got on the northbound rail. It terminated in Dunwoody, at which point I took a cab to a mall in Alpharetta, a dense suburban area an hour north of Atlanta on the GA-400 toll road. From there, another cab took me to an airfield.

Calling it an airfield was a bit of a stretch. It was actually a 2,500-foot sod airstrip in the middle of a shorn grassland plot. There was nothing as luxurious as a baggage or terminal facility. It was literally a strip in the middle of nowhere, north Georgia.

Fifteen minutes of walking took me to a hanger where a white Cirrus SR22 G2 waited. It was a smart, single-engine light aircraft and famous because it came equipped with a parachute system. Also because Angelina Jolie had one. It was one of the safest planes ever built for private ownership and that was why my father bought it. In the U.S., the minimum age to receive a student pilot's license for flying powered aircraft is 16. Luckily for me, when I started flying, we were living in England, where the minimum age is 14.

In the pilot's seat inside the cockpit of my plane was a burner phone and a sprig of dried lavender. When I turned on the phone, it scanned my fingerprint and unlocked. A moment later, the phone beeped, alerting me to new text messages.

The first text comprised a set of numbers: 44.0145° N, 6.2116° E. The second text was simply: JULIET, and the third text another series of numbers: 227772888666.

The first set of numbers were coordinates – longitude and latitude. The name JULIET was the phonetic alphabet word for "J." The second set of numbers represented the position of the letters on a telephone key pad – 2 = ABC, so 22 = B; 7 = PQRS so 777 = R; and so on. The decoded word: BRAVO. This was the phonetic alphabet word for the letter "B."

J.B.

My parents told me if I was ever on the run, I needed to find this man.

* * *

 _Now_

 _"_ _Hello, this Aaron Prescott. You've reached my cell and I can't answer at this time. Please leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."_

This was the message I normally got when my dad's voice mail picked up. But the generic, built-in version, the one that comes with all phones, was the one he employed when he was unable to contact me, and needed to tell me something very specific –

And that is: _Run. You're in danger._

This is why I am now in Provence, France, looking for Jason Bourne.


	2. Chapter 2

Every moment in this robe feels like a blasphemy.

My presence here certainly is.

Sénanque Abbey is one of the oldest monasteries in the world, founded in 1148. Cistercian monks have lived and worked here since 1854, with a brief absence between 1903 and 1988 when a new priory from Lérins Abbey returned. Since then the abbey has flourished, the monks tending to the lavender and apiaries for their livelihood. In keeping with this 21st century trend of mindfulness, they also take in people seeking spiritual retreats.

That's how I arrived here years ago.

I wasn't seeking peace. I was seeking absolution for the sin of being alive.

* * *

I have loved two women and I have lost them both. There were others in my youth. But only these two mattered.

One was my savior, who came to me when my road was at a dark end. She helped me find my way in an untethered world, helped me pave a path and life that for a few years provided me with happiness. If only we'd understood that the emptiness in my memory was false serenity; that my past would always be my present and my future, and no one with me could be safe. Marie died when a bullet meant for me struck her.

The other woman was my salvation. I loved her in two lifetimes, and in neither could I keep her.

Nicolette Parsons, née Parish.

Nicky.

She knew me when I was another man, when I was a secret, hidden beneath the machine Treadstone built and called Jason Bourne. His name was David Webb and she loved him. Even when she came to me, I knew she loved him still; but she never called me by his name. Never. To her I was Jason. It was at once relief and benediction, her acknowledgement and acceptance of who I was. But all the same, there was a lingering emptiness, knowing that David, _her David_ , shared my face, my body, my being, and I was none of him. Sometimes I felt like a shadow, a thief, a doppelganger.

The first time we tried to make love, we stopped, pained, anguished, confused. Her touch was new and unfamiliar, yet at the same time, she knew _where_ to touch me, _how_ to touch me; and it felt like an unfaithfulness to Marie. In Nicky's eyes, I could see all her sorrow, how making love to _me_ was simultaneously a betrayal of her memories of him, and of that moment with me.

We did not touch each other intimately again for several long months.

I could tell you the exact moment she fell in love with _me_ , when David Webb no longer held her in thrall, when Jason Bourne was the man for whom she smiled, all the love shining in her eyes.

We were in Provence. She told me we'd been there before, but I had no memory of this. For months after that aborted lovemaking attempt, we simply allowed ourselves to be…to be. Just to be. We lived together, we ate together, we slept in the same bed. Our touches were infrequent at first; but as we adapted, as we learned how to be Jason and Nicky _together_ , it got easier to reach out, to stroke her face with the back of my fingers; to accept her body curled around mine in the morning; to take her hand when we walked along Omaha Beach outside the home we shared. Our silence became less measured, more peaceful; I'd wake up from naps on the couch in the wood-paneled family room to find across from me, reading in an armchair. It felt so…fucking normal.

We went to Provence on a whim, found ourselves near here, in the town of Gordes. The locals suggested a tour of the ancient Abbey. As we drove up and saw the lavender fields outside the Abbey walls, Nicky yelled, "Stop the car!" I did, but was unprepared for her sprinting out of the car to run _shrieking_ into the garden, spinning around and around happily. I had never seen her…joyful. The sun was in her hair, delight in her brown eyes…and I smiled at her. Smiled with every bit of pleasure I felt at seeing her like this, of being with her.

And when Nicky saw my smile, she stopped, stared. The wide grin on her face gave way to something soft, something tender. Something that took my breath away.

We fell in love amidst a riot of purple flowers and made love that night in a bed strewn with them.

Lavender is Nicky and Nicky is lavender.

Sometimes I wake, overpowered by the perfume of lavender that lingers in the morning air, and despite the hardness of my bed, the roughness of the sheets, the paucity of comfort, for a moment, I think she is with me. My body craves her, wants her silken warmth; I am hard, I am aroused, I need her; and each time I come to consciousness, with reality comes the misery and the fury that effectively douses my desire and reminds me that my body will never know hers again.

It kills me that I never held her again as David Webb, even when I could recall that part of me.

* * *

The Cistercians are among the most austere of the Catholic orders, practicing monastic life as it was in St. Benedict's time. We live under the Rule of St. Benedict, so we are sometimes known as Benedictines, and also "White Monks" because we wear white cucculas, or choir robes, over our habits, instead of black ones like other Benedictine orders.

Our life at the abbey is divided between prayer and work. We gather seven times a day to pray, to sing, to observe the liturgy of the hours. Vigils begin at 4:30 am followed by Lauds and Mass; sext, none, then vespers; and compline finishes our day at 8:15 pm. In between prayer, we work. We care for our lavender and our bees and our olive groves. We sell the products of our labor to the public.

We are at _none_ , the three o'clock liturgy. My brothers are praying and celebrating God. I am not.

I'm just mimicking every other man here, head bowed over clasped hands. My lips are moving and my eyes are closed; but I am not engaged with The Lord. My penance is to suffer every moment that I live whilst _they_ are dead. Marie. Nicky. The unborn child I forfeited along with my memory.

So while my fellow brothers seek comfort and spiritual completion, I don my mental cilice and replay the moments when those two women died, a hairsbreadth away from me, because they'd had the folly to love me, to be…a hairsbreadth away from me.

* * *

There's a tradition of warrior monks, both historically and in literature. It makes sense. When you live in blood and chaos, silence and order are alluring. Your time is not your own; it belongs to prayer and to work, to the hallowed and the mundane. You can forget yourself because you are expected to put yourself aside. There is symmetry in death and in devotion.

Conversion to monastic life takes about five to six years so I'm almost halfway there. We don't take a vow of silence despite public perception to the contrary; Cistercians may speak on three different occasions, but generally, we don't talk as we are in continual prayer. This is acceptable to me.

But…I am a fraud in a friar's frock. I am here to punish myself, not to celebrate the Divine Office. Maybe this is part of the conversion process – becoming aware of my doubts, of my reasons for being here, why I've chosen to wear this robe.

This robe which I'm pretty sure I'm dishonoring with my thoughts.

 _Fuck_.

And my cursing.

* * *

There is satisfaction in punishing your body with back-breaking, bone-wearying work, leaning over to harvest lavender; normally I care for the bees, collecting honey, or making sure that the hives are thriving and the queens are healthy. Today, I have been asked to gather lavender bundles and prepare them for sale in our store.

Vespers is in an hour and I will repeat my mental torture, remembering the way Marie's head snapped back before lolling to a side; the way Nicky's brown eyes were glazed with pain as she – even to the goddamned last trying to help me – threw me the key that gave me insight into my past.

A shadow falls over my table of bound lavender sheaves and I look up. I already know it's not one of my compatriots.

Standing before me is a girl with dark blond hair and aviator glasses. She's in jeans, hiking boots and layers: collared shirt, pullover and a down jacket. Slung over her shoulders are the straps of a dark backpack.

At first I think she's gotten separated from her school group – the abbey offers educational tours – but she's so clearly alone as she stares up at me that I wonder instead if she's one of the tourists who's passing through. But that thought is discarded because she's too young to be on her own. She's what? Fourteen, maybe fifteen?

 _My daughter would have been a little older than her._

The thought sears through me. At that moment she lifts the aviator glasses and lets them rest on top of her head. Her face is familiar, refined; slate blue eyes flecked with black, grey, green stare at me.

 _But my daughter would have had brown eyes instead of blue eyes…_

Wait. I know those eyes.

I think I'm pretty poker-faced, but maybe I betray some reaction because that strangely calm face crumples and tears well up in her eyes. She's trying to hold herself together and losing the battle; but she manages to choke out one word:

"Treadstone."

The robes in which I chafe will be set aside.

I am a monk no more.

I am Jason Bourne.


	3. Chapter 3

Jason Bourne drives like my dad: focused, hyper-aware, and always looking in the rearview mirror to see if someone's following us even though we've gone nearly forty miles without anything suspicious occuring. Like my dad, he's over six feet tall, not burly, just lean and big. He moves the same way: preternaturally still, though there's a heightened alertness in his mannerisms – he's ready to strike at any moment.

Bourne's way more taciturn than Dad, but then again, we're little more than strangers. We've been driving for an hour in complete silence and I'm not exactly bubbling over with conversation either.

Really, what is there to say?

I dropped a bomb on his life and now we're on the road to Nice because it's where I told him we needed to go. Apart from that bit of information and sketching him in on my missing dad situation, that's as much as we've talked since we left the Abbey.

* * *

I've never not known The Truth. There wasn't a moment when my parents revealed my origin story to me; it was just something I've always known. When you grow up with a father who teaches you survival skills, when you know how to field strip and assemble handguns and rifles blindfolded by the time you're nine, when Angus MacGyver is your patron saint, when your parents use cash and stay under the radar, when they are so careful about how they travel and move about and settle – or the dead giveaway, when your last name changes a few times – you understand that your life is a secret, that you are living life on the run. You don't just assume your dad is that Outdoor Living magazine guy who wants you to be more prepared than your local Boy Scouts.

Am I angry? Of course I am.

I'm mad that I didn't get to have a "normal" childhood, that I can't just be upset about One Direction breaking up; that I'm not screaming and singing along at Taylor Swift concerts, that I don't have girlfriends to giggle with, and carrying on about who's taking me to prom. Up until a year ago, I'd never been in a public school. I'd never been surrounded by kids my age. A lot of them were really nice. I would've been glad to be real friends with any of them, rather than very friendly acquaintances. It would have been nice to accept invitations to attend Friday night parties, to go out to football games, or to have them over to watch movies at my house. But friends and secrecy don't go hand in hand. And I felt so much older than them for all the reasons I enumerated earlier.

Of course I'm pissed.

But I'm madder that my mom is dead. I'm madder that my dad is missing. I'm still grieving losing my mom. I'm not ready to do the same for my dad.

In the monastery, when I found Bourne, he had a look of resignation on his face, as if he'd been waiting for me or this message, and at the same time, had been dreading it.

Immediately after my pronouncement, he dropped the lavender bundles on his table, took my arm and marched me to the Abbey's main office. There he placed me in the vestibule while he went to consult with some other monks. Emerging fifteen minutes later with a curt, "Stay here. I'll be right back," he disappeared for thirty more minutes. When he returned, gone were the robes he'd worn, in their place street clothes - dark canvas trousers, boots, black Henley shirt and a beaten, worn leather jacket.

"Let's go," he said curtly. "Brother Aaron will take us to Gordes."

In town, he said good-bye to the monk who dropped us off, then went to a local garage facility, where he picked up a non-descript blue Audi.

I'm startled when he suddenly speaks.

"How did you find me?" His voice sounds gravelly, like he's still getting used to talking.

"When we were living in Oregon, there was a monastery nearby – it was a Brigittine Order. My dad and I would go to their shop every few weeks to buy chocolates for my mother. A couple of times, we attended Mass and…my dad's not religious, but I think he found it peaceful." I pause. "I figured you weren't too different from him. If you were going to hide out in plain sight, where better than in a monastery?"

The look he casts me is speculative. _Clever kid._

"I'm fucking with you," I admit. "My parents knew you were in a monastery in France."

I can almost hear the thought in his head as he glares at me: _Little shit_.

"Don't curse," he tells me mildly. "How did they know?"

"Nicky told them."

His inscrutable face spasms with…pain? Anguish?

"But Dad and I did go get Mom chocolates at that monastery."

"Your mom…"

"She's dead."

"I'm sorry."

I try to shrug nonchalantly but my eyes sting. I turn away to look out my window, not wanting him to see me cry.

"You got kids?" I ask.

I catch a glimpse of Jason Bourne's reflection in my window. He looks _exactly_ like how I feel: agonized.

"I'm no one's dad," he says brusquely.

And I remember…

Nicky's dead, too.

* * *

"You said you were living in Oregon," he says a little later. "How did you get here?"

"I flew."

He side-eyes me.

There is no anonymity in travel any longer, and certainly not for international travel. It's a lot harder to be inconspicuous than you'd think. Everything is digitized and we're all bits and bytes and codes, facial planes and angles that cameras can recognize and identify.

It's why my family owns a plane. Flying gave us the freedom to be anonymous in the air and on the ground. Over years, my father had secured relationships that enabled us to fly in and out of one of the 13,000 private runways in the United States. On aviation charts they are denoted with a magenta R inside a circle. This stands for "Restricted," which means these runways are not available for public use except in emergency situations, and always requiring authorization from a specific person or entity – but it allows you to bypass state and federal aviation facilities. For short trips, Dad would also try to stay out of controlled air space so we wouldn't have to file a flight plan.

In the U.S. most planes fly in what's known as "Class E," which is controlled airspace from 1200 to 18,000 feet above ground level. More frequently than not, Dad would fly Class G, which doesn't require entry or clearance requirements so we never had to communicate with Air Traffic Control.

"I took my Cirrus from Atlanta to New York, then caught a ride over the Atlantic."

"'Caught a ride?'"

"Ferry pilot."

He doesn't give any indication he knows what that means.

"Aviation ferries," I explain. "People buy or have planes, and need them flown to their location. I met up with a ferry pilot who was taking a Citation to England. From there, it was easy enough to find another ferry pilot going from England to Nice."

"Don't they have to file flight plans?"

"Yes. But silence and omission can be had." My dad was a ferry pilot for years, making it possible for us to travel widely, and now we have a network of pilots who can be trusted, or whose silence can be bought. People who fly planes around the world for someone else aren't exactly social creatures. Enough of them understand when discretion is desired. Some of them have secrets, too.

Bourne nods. "That's why we're heading back to Nice? You've got another ride?"

 _Bingo._

"What's our destination?"

"London Oxford Airport. Then Windsor, in Berkshire."

I'm completely unprepared for him slamming on the brakes. The Audi's tires protest, burnt rubber squealing as black tracks streak the road behind us. Momentum drives me forward and I miss slamming my face into the dash simply how fast his arm shoots out to brace me.

" _What the fuck?_ " I yell when I straighten.

"Language," he snarls. His eyes are bright, blazing blue. "You should've told me he was in danger."

Oh, he is _livid_.

Well, shit. I didn't think he knew. I was going to ease him into it.

He may be no one's dad, but he _is_ someone's _father_.

His kid is in England.

Apparently he knows all that.


	4. Chapter 4

Zander Forsythe.

It's a mouthful of a name, but it's far safer than the name his mother wanted.

Forsythe is Alexandra Seward's maiden name. She's Nicky's cousin, and they were extremely close, raised together when Nicky's mother Heidi took in her niece after Alex's mom died. Heidi Langthorpe and her sister Serena had each married sensationally wealthy men: Nicky's dad, Nicholas Parish, and Alex's dad, Jeremiah Forsythe. Both marriages had ended disastrously, Nicky's father dying in a murder-suicide with his mistress; Jeremiah and Serena dying after their plane crashed when Alex was a child.

Nicky changed her last name in college, when being the daughter of convicted arms dealer Nicholas Parish had been to her detriment; hence the birth of Nicolette _Parsons_. Alex married young and has been a Seward for so long, it's her name of record, but her maiden name sufficed to hide Zander.

It was the safest name to give him, but it was also apt: on paper, Zander Forsythe is _Alex's_ son. There's a custodial trail of information beginning and ending with Alex: becoming pregnant by artificial insemination through a respected clinic; a profile of Donor A5872241X-C2018, detailing his impeccable genetic credentials and personal achievements; a DNA report detailing the possible hereditary conditions that he might inherit from Alex and the donor; admittance and discharge records from Alex's stay at London's private Lindo wing. There are notes from the attending OB-GYN about the preeclampsia that nearly killed Alex during childbirth.

Everything is so precisely, tightly orchestrated, it'd actually be harder to prove that Zander _isn't_ Alex's son.

I wouldn't have expected any less from Nicky.

* * *

 _Then_

No one ever looks at a preacher. Wear the collar, the robes - and people are deferential, but they don't make eye contact; they greet you briefly, a murmured, "Father," and they nod their heads, let you go on your way.

In a hospital they assume you're on a mission of mercy, to offer comfort and last rites to someone who is dying - and they'd prefer _not_ to acknowledge a man of cloth, as he can only be the harbinger for Death.

It suits my purposes for no one to notice or to question me.

I shouldn't be here.

But how I could I stay away?

It's been seven months since I last saw her, when she walked out the door of our home. Our break was absolute: I've not heard from her since that moment. Then Alex called me yesterday to tell me Nicky nearly died.

It took half a day but now I'm here.

The Lindo wing is famous for catering to London's rich and notable, those who can afford the private-pay maternity suites, outside the constraints of the National Health Care system. This is where modern royal babies have been born. The en-suite rooms come with options for on-staff chefs and hotel-inspired amenities, but considering the daily rate of £5,900 (assuming no complications), it's not really as luxurious as you'd think: ultimately it's a hospital room - but it's distinguished by its iron-clad discretion, and _that's_ why Nicky's here; and why I'm here now.

I make my way down the hall of St. Mary's Hospital, slightly bemused that no one challenges my presence. Halfway down the hall, a slim blond woman exits the room at the end of the hall. She sees me and stops, legs planted. From a distance, she looks like Nicky: blond, brown eyes, finely drawn features; but she's leggier and taller. She looks like hell. She jerks her head toward the door she's just exited and we pass by each other with nothing so polite as a nod or acknowledgement.

A sign has been placed on the door requesting privacy; no disturbances, please. I don't knock. I simply enter, closing the door behind me.

Inside, no lights are on, the afternoon sun filtering partially through the drawn shades. The room is punctuated by the soft noises of machines: whooshes, puffs, whistles, beeps. A plush green chair is pushed near the hospital bed. A fine grey cashmere blanket covers the sleeping woman stretched out on that bed. In repose, her features are so peaceful: dark blond lashes against pale skin, the sweep of her cheekbones curving down to a generous mouth I have covered with my own so many times.

 _My love._

Next to the bed is a bassinet, to which is affixed a blue tag: IT'S A BOY! Peering over, I look down at the bundled little creature whose face is wrinkled and ruddy. His head is covered but I can see the dark blond curl peeking out from under his cap.

 _My child._

Neither of them can I have. But I want the chance, just once, to hold. I reach down and lift the baby, cradling him against me, lowering my face to his skin, touching my lips to his warm forehead. He startles, a soft noise escaping him but he doesn't open his eyes or wake up.

"Jason." The raspy sound of her voice is as smoky as the Speyside single malts she favors. I don't turn around; I'm not ready to face an awake Nicky. I snuggle the warm baby in my arms, marveling over his tiny face and hands, the sweet little nose and the long lashes.

"What's his name?"

"Zander."

I nod.

"I wanted Zander David Webb."

Pain arrows through me and I tighten my hold on the baby, causing him to squirm in my arms, snuffle; but I rock him gently and he goes back to sleep.

"That's reckless." I'm pleased to hear the monotone that betrays none of my hurt.

"Well my first choice was Zander Jason Bourne, but that was guaranteed to raise all sorts of red flags."

I freeze. Nicky is nothing if not unpredictable.

"I _know_ who you are, Jason." Her reproof is as soft as her voice.

"That's dangerous." Still monotone, less hurt.

"Yes," she agrees. "Zander Forsythe."

I wait for her explanation.

"It's Alex's maiden name."

I do not understand the bond between Nicky, her cousin and her mother; they are a triumvirate of love, loyalty, and steadfastness. You could accuse them of codependency but that's not it: there is mutual consideration and respect, an unwavering trust. It informs how Nicky behaves with people she loves - with me. Her love was... _is_ absolute. Even now that we're no longer together, I don't doubt that Nicky still loves me, would still do anything to help me if I asked. But I'm not asking. Nicky has gone to a place I cannot follow.

Even so, I can't stop myself from pleading.

"Nicky, if nothing else, for him…"

"No." Steel infuses her voice. "I'm doing this _for_ him. You know he's in danger so long as -"

She breaks off, hissing in pain. Alarmed, I move toward her, but she waves me off, eyes closed, teeth gritted. She breathes hard for a few minutes. When she opens her eyes, her agony is not physical. I should know: I'm in the same hell. Just being near her, it's all I can do not to gather her in my arms, and flee with her and our son, take them both to safety.

But as time has proven over and over, there is no safe place for Jason Bourne or those near him.

"Nicky." Her whispered name is part prayer, part plea.

She swallows hard, tears glistening in her eyes. "You can't be here."

I know this. We knew we were living on borrowed time, that eventually Byer would get what he wanted. Our reprieve was so short, but fuck, the years we had before it ended had been so goddamned good.

Byer and his dogs are now a half-step behind us. Our safeguards were rendered meaningless when Nicky's mother died.

Or rather, when Nicky's mother was murdered.

Byer had known that taking out the one person Nicky loved more than anyone else in the world - _including me_ \- would drive her out into open warfare. Counted on it.

And even knowing that, Nicky walked out of the dark quiet of our home, armed with grief and intent on getting even.

Nicky is no longer mine; she's Byer's creature now and she will be until one of them is dead.

I lower my face to my son's, murmuring soft words, private words just for him. Kissing his soft cheek, I lower him into his bassinet and straighten my collar, smoothing out my robe as I move toward the door.

I pause but I do not turn to look at her.

"I love you, Nicky."

There is a choked sound behind me.

"I love you, Jason."

I pull the door close behind me, walking away from my love and my son, heading back to a life in stasis.

* * *

 _Now_

"Goddamn you," I snarl at the girl who glares at me defiantly.

"Language," she snaps at me. "Look, I didn't know how much you knew."

"Tell me everything _now_." I floor the Audi, gaze fixed ahead, anger rolling off me as the urgency of getting to my son is tempered with _not_ crashing this car.

I think about the words I whispered to him that long ago day of his birth: "I'll burn the world for you."


End file.
